Learning to Be Happy
by xoarv
Summary: Arthur has lived a life of privilege and partying since as long as he can remember. But a dramatic car accident fueled by some not-so admirable behavior leads to a major lifestyle change - and discovering what makes him happy along the way. A/M Modern AU
1. And It Begins

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at Merlin/Arthur, but I'm pretty proud of what I've hammered out. Britpickers, please note that I've included some British slang but omitted some (especially in regards to swearing). I hope it's not too irksome. Reviews are always appreciated! **Sequel is ready to be uploaded!**

Here's the thing: Arthur isn't even _that _drunk when he hits the side of the bank. Certainly, he's been drunker. _Much _drunker. But apparently somewhere between Ellie giving him a lap dance and him pelting five-pound notes at a topless girl on a bar (Meg? Beatrice? Whose tits are those? Note: check phone for photo evidence later), Arthur has ingested quite a lot of alcohol. So much so that he is three times the legal limit for driving when he turns too sharply and into the side of the brick bank. And then there is the matter of Sophie, who is giving him head while he's driving – or at least trying to.

So when his father bails him out of jail (and Sophie, too, though reluctantly), Arthur is still trying to piece together what had happened. He hasn't been hurt, miraculously, though he has a black eye and a very sore ribcage. But Arthur can't quite remember what he'd done – or why he was driving or where he'd been driving _to._

And _Jesus, _his dick hurts. Sophie had bitten it, he's pretty sure. Christ.

After dropping Sophie off at her parents' house, Arthur and his father drive home in very stilted silence.

"Father," slurs Arthur, trying very hard to be coherent and failing.

"—We'll discuss this when you're more suited to conversation," snaps Uther. Arthur notices the bags under his eyes and fleetingly wonders how his father had reacted when the police had phoned to say his son had been in a car accident while driving drunk.

The thought is washed away as Arthur vomits on his shoes.

Morning slams into Arthur's skull like a freight train. Oh, fuck. Arthur tests moving – his whole head feels as if it's burning in acid, or something.

(Speaking of which: had he dropped acid last night? He can't remember.)

Arthur can smell cooking, and it's enough to warrant a run to the loo to vomit. Extensively.

There's a tap at his door and Morgana enters, holding a hair of the dog.

"Hey," she stage-whispers. "I brought you a little pick-me-up."

Wiping his mouth, Arthur stands to regard his step-sister. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Why?"

Morgana rolls her eyes. "Because I'm a nice person, you twat."

Arthur sips the tonic carefully, watching Morgana out of the corner of his eye. As he drinks, Morgana fiddles idly with his alarm clock.

"And also, Uther wants to speak with you."

Ah, there it is: the true reason for the hair of the dog.

"Fuck," swears Arthur vehemently. "How angry is he?"

"Never seen him as mental," replies Morgana cheerfully. "He's been muttering about your inheritance all afternoon."

Arthur pales: if his father is threatening to suspend his inheritance, it's really serious.

"Wait," he says suddenly to Morgana, "'All afternoon?'"

Morgana taps the screen of his alarm clock. "It's quarter after three."

So it isn't morning after all. Great. Uther can't stand laziness or a lack of timeliness.

"Which is worse," he asks Morgana fervently, "showing up late because I was washing or showing up mangy and on time?"

Morgana purses her lips in thought. "Both," she decides gleefully. "I say, rip off the plaster and just go. He's in his office."

Fuck. Arthur nods and goes to the sink to slap some water on his face. Squaring his shoulders, Arthur nods to Morgana before descending.

"Here goes nothing."

"See you in the aftermath!" Morgana calls after him.

Cheeky bint.

Uther is sitting in his leather chair behind his desk. Even after all these years, Arthur's father can still impart fear in him. _He's like a king on his throne in that chair_, thinks Arthur. King Uther. He'd like that. Arthur is careful not to let his lips twitch upward – any false move, and he loses his inheritance.

"Arthur," begins Uther in that voice, the voice that still sends chills down Arthur's back, "after I worked out the events of last night, I wondered if I should even go to bail you out."

Arthur is silent; it's best to say nothing.

"I have decided not to suspend your inheritance," continues Uther, and Arthur lets out the breath he was evidently holding.

"—Father, I can assure you—"

"—I'm not finished," says Uther, and Arthur falls silent immediately, his stomach freefalling. "However, I am disinheriting you for the time being," his father says casually. Arthur's jaw slackens.

"—But—" he says involuntarily. Uther stops him short.

"You are to move out," he continues. "Find a flat of your own. Find a job. You are not to see any of your old friends – including and especially Sophie. I do not want to discuss this any further."

Arthur looks up. His father looks ill, grim.

"You should be able to move out by Friday." He meets Arthur's gaze. "That is all."

Shaking, Arthur throws up in the downstairs loo for good measure.


	2. Moving Out

When he returns to his room, Morgana is sitting on his bed. Upon his entrance, she stands, having the decency to look concerned.

"So how bad is it?" she wants to know.

Arthur clears his throat. "Bad."

"He didn't suspend your inheritance, did he?" Morgana asks hotly. "If he did, I swear to God, I will never speak to him again, the bastard—"

Arthur holds up a hand to quiet her.

"He didn't suspend my inheritance," Arthur tells her. She lets out a deep breath. "I'm getting kicked out," he explains dully. He can still taste the acid in his mouth. "I'm supposed to be out by Friday. And I'm to stop partying. And – er – seeing Sophie."

"Christ," exhales Morgana. It occurs to Arthur that Morgana actually might care for him. She meets Arthur's eyes. "So what're you going to do?"

"Move out, I suppose," says Arthur flatly, collapsing on his bed. Morgana perches gingerly next to him. "I haven't got any other choice, have I?"

Morgana places a hand on his. "I'll help you. I'm moving out anyway—"

"What?" asks Arthur, sitting upright too quickly. "When did you decide this?"

Morgana shrugs. "A few weeks ago. Gwen got a flat and wants to split. And I supposed it would be good to move out, be independent for a bit."

"But my father's still going to be paying your bills," says Arthur dully. "You're all set. And you _like _to work – this is a dream come true for you."

"You'll be fine," says Morgana, dodging his accusations. "You always were a good person when you weren't trying so hard not to be."

"But I like partying," protests Arthur. "And I like my friends." As an afterthought, he adds, "And Sophie."

Morgana rolls her eyes – she'd never liked Sophie. (Sophie, in turn, had loathed Morgana.)

"If you still want to have a father, I suggest you cease and desist," sighs Morgana.

"But where am I supposed to find a job? Or a flat?"

Morgana rises, ruffling his hair obnoxiously. "You'll figure it out, Arthur. You're a smart kid."

Arthur gives her back the finger.

"This," says Arthur loudly, "is a piss closet."

He's standing in a shitty flat in south London, flanked by Morgana and Gwen, who'd offered to help. It's Tuesday, and he's only go three days to move out Or Else. Jesus.

"Don't mind my brother," says Morgana to the landlord. "He's a cretin."

"I think it's nice," says Gwen cheerfully. But she's Gwen, and she's always cheerful. "'S got character, hasn't it?"

Arthur huffs and turns to Morgana. "This is the last on our list?"

She nods warily. "This is the last." She pauses. "And the cheapest."

Arthur grimaces. It's smaller than the pool house. Hell, it's smaller than the pool house _shed._

"Fine," he sighs. Gwen smiles; Morgana is all business. She sorts out the rent and requirements while Arthur sulks to the side. Gwen squeezes his arm.

"You'll be okay," she murmurs. "You're smart and people like you. You're a Pendragon. You were born for success."

Arthur rubs the back of his neck.

"I don't know how to live on my own," he mutters. "All my life, I've had people pay for me and groom me and care for me and now I'm supposed to support myself in this shithole that came out someone's arse and Morgana expects me to _like _it – maybe I'm just tired of people expecting things from me, Gwen. All the time."

Gwen sighs, the air hissing softly over Arthur's arm.

He loves her even now – he remembers with nostalgia their short-lived romance. But then Arthur had started going more and more frequently to clubs and Gwen was – she was Gwen.

But he could still, even now, understand why he'd loved her and why he still did a bit now. Just differently. It couldn't work between them. Gwen deserved someone strong and silent, a cowboy. Or a knight. Someone who could love her selflessly, asking nothing in return.

Arthur would never be able to give her that.

But it doesn't stop her from gently placing her head on his shoulder or him from leaning his cheek onto the top of her head.

"Arthur?" Morgana's voice is sharp, causing Gwen to quickly draw back. "Everything's set. You can move in Friday as intended."

Arthur nods curtly, and, thinking he ought to do this properly, shakes the landlord's hand. "Sorry about earlier. I've suffered – a loss, I suppose. I'm afraid I haven't been in very good spirits recently."

The landlord nods. "Don't mention it, son. I'm Mr. Potts," he tells Arthur. "I look forward to accommodating your occupancy needs, Mr. Pendragon."

"Arthur," Arthur corrects, giving a polite smile. "And you as well."

As they leave, Morgana slaps him on the back.

"That's the most responsibly I've ever seen you act," she says snidely. Arthur scowls.

"Shove off."


	3. Digestive Cookies and Keys

The thing about having a flat is that it costs money. Arthur is living off noodles and tea. He's gotten a job at a shop that sells clothes to middle-aged divorcees, from the looks of the clothing. Apparently, Arthur is a natural at charming middle-aged women into buying horrid jumpers.

But he still can't pay for decent food. Or anything, actually.

When his water gets shut off, he starts washing at Morgana and Gwen's flat and then cooking and sleeping there until Morgana gets fed up.

"Arthur," she says sharply one afternoon from the kitchen, "you're going to start owing _me _rent."

"I'm broke," sighs Arthur. "Mr. Potts is going to shut off my electric soon and I can't live like this anymore. I just can't. I'll go crawling back to Father."

Morgana laughs. "Arthur, it's barely been a month. He's not going to let you come back because you can't pay your bills." After a moment, she adds, "And tell Sophie to stop calling me. It's getting annoying."

"I can't," says Arthur dully. "It's because my cell is shut off and I never got round to telling her we were done fucking around."

There's a small sound and Arthur blushes as he realizes Gwen is in the room.

Morgana gives him a look that could kill.

"What you need," she says, "is a flatmate. Someone who can split your bills, rent. That kind of thing."

"In that place?" laughs Arthur. "I can barely fit myself!" He stops laughing when he realizes she isn't kidding. "Wait, you're serious?"

Morgana nods.

"I'll buy you another skinny little twin mattress to put in there, on the other side of your bedroom-slash-living area. It'll be fine."

Oh, Jesus. Arthur's blood begins to boil just thinking about living with someone. It would be a nightmare. Arthur doesn't have OCD—or, rather, he's never been tested for it. In any case, he can't stand people messing with his things or schlepping around in his space or doing anything remotely annoying and he just really prefers to be alone, if he's being completely honest. It's not that he _couldn't _get on with other people, it's just that he really, sincerely did not like to.

"No," says Arthur, voice betraying a note of panic, "I won't."

"You're being a child," snaps Morgana, rising suddenly.

"I hate people," whines Arthur, in part just to grate his sister's nerves. It works; she scowls at him.

But Arthur can't really see a way out of it: it's a flatmate or vagrancy, he supposes.

"Arthur," pleads Morgana, and he can see she really _wants _him to do well, "I'll even find a flatmate _for _you. I promise. I'll set up the adverts and everything. Anything to get you _out of my flat."_

And that's how Merlin Emrys stumbles into Arthur's shitty flat one Wednesday afternoon.

There's a short series of knocks in varying pressures, as if the person outside is testing out which one sounds best. Then there's a short pause and three firm, solid knocks. Arthur rises and cracks his door open.

"Oh, no solicitors," he says sharply, noticing the boy's suitcase in one hand. "No, thank you."

"No, wait!" the boy says as Arthur tries to shut the door, "I'm not a solicitor! I mean, I _am_, but I'm off duty." He pauses. "Arthur, yeah?"

Arthur narrows his eyes. "Yes. Who are you, exactly?"

"Merlin Emrys," says the skinny person amiably, as if he's just been proposed to. "Er – Morgana gave me this address? Said you were looking for a flatmate?"

Arthur nods cautiously, lets Merlin into the flat. There's a brief pause, then—

"Well, here I am!" says Merlin enthusiastically, throwing his arms out widely, knocking over a potted plant. "Oh, shite, sorry," he mutters quickly. "Hang on." He bends to pick it up.

"Are you usually this doltish, Merlin?" snaps Arthur, still partially hidden by the door. Merlin looks up, still smiling.

"Always."

When Merlin stands, Arthur gets a good look at him in the light pouring through the dirty window. He's abominably tall and skinny, with eyes so blue they look almost black and a bobbly head on a spindly neck. He's also wearing the most abhorrent combination of clothing Arthur has ever seen—a stupid hipster neck scarf—_red—_with a blue shirt and a horrid leather jacket. Good. God.

Arthur catches sight of the suitcase again, and Arthur realizes Merlin is selling cosmetics.

"Cosmetics," laughs Arthur. _"Really?"_

Merlin shrugs, gives an easy grin. He sits down in the area Arthur has called the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "I like to make them feel beautiful," says Merlin softly, looking at the floor. "I don't think many have heard that in a while. Have felt that way. You know?" He looks at Arthur, so sincere, and Arthur fights the inane urge to laugh – he's like Charlie Brown, this guy, he's _that _sincere. Merlin looks up at Arthur, breaks his reverie. "What about you? What do you do?"

"I lie to the same women so they give me good commission," says Arthur flatly, and Merlin doesn't react, doesn't act shocked at all. Merlin just nods like he knew it already, fiddles with the sleeve of his stupid jacket.

There is a pause.

"Would you like a digestive cookie?" asks Merlin suddenly. Arthur jumps a little; what is with this weirdo?

"What?"

"A digestive cookie," repeats Merlin. "I have some in my bag." As if Arthur's said yes, Merlin digs through his leather bag – a stupid hipster thing – and pulls out some half-crumbled digestive cookies that yes, actually look good.

"Fine," sighs Arthur, and Merlin starts to pull a cookie out of the bag. "No, not that," says Arthur quickly, and Merlin looks slightly crestfallen. "It's just – fine. You can be my flatmate."

Merlin doesn't even look _grateful, _the prick, just accepting – like he's known that since the minute he stepped foot in the flat with his stupid moccasins – _moccasins, _Christ.

"Okay," he says. "When can I move in? I'm staying with my mum but – there are complications, see, and I could really—"

"Whatever, whatever," says Arthur just to shut him up: just because he's his new flatmate doesn't mean he has to know his entire life story. "Just come whenever." Arthur digs around the drawer by the sink for the extra key and drops it into Merlin's hand. Taking a scrap of paper, he writes the phone number for the flat and gives that to Merlin, too. Merlin drops them in his bag at random; Arthur winces.

"Be—careful," Arthur mutters, but Merlin's already gone, swept out like the wind.


	4. Closing In

Merlin moves in the next day at an ungodly hour in the morning and doesn't even apologize for it – he's brought his mate—Will, Arthur hears Merlin call him—and they're laughing about something as they unload boxes in Merlin's half of the room. Arthur sits up in bed, momentarily disoriented and then quickly annoyed – what the fuck at this hour _seriously_?

"Morning," says Merlin brightly, waving hello. Will nods; his hands are filled with boxes.

They're like preteen girls, the way they're unpacking and going over Merlin's stupid trinkets like they're artifacts. Arthur fixes himself some coffee at the pot and Will realizes Arthur isn't very happy.

"Maybe we should've, you know, come later," he mutters to Merlin, and Merlin just shrugs as if everyone gets up at quarter to eight on weekday mornings.

Arthur sighs, filters the grounds for his coffee.

"Could you make me some?" asks Merlin cheerfully, and Arthur swears. It's not like he can _refuse—_this is his new flatmate that _he _chose. Merlin thanks him this time, and it's a little gratifying so Arthur doesn't consider it a complete loss.

Will looks distinctly uncomfortable, and Arthur gets the feeling that Will still isn't used to Merlin either.

"I'll see you later, then," says Will as he walks to the door when he and Merlin are finished unpacking. Merlin's section of the flat looks like a Salvation Army, which hurts Arthur's ulcer. "Unless you're never coming back to the village?"

"No, 'course I'll be back," mumbles Merlin, doing that stupid fiddling thing he keeps doing with his sleeve. "I've got to visit my mum."

Arthur can tell this isn't exactly what Will meant. Will nods and leaves awkwardly—but Merlin is just looking at some framed pictures he's set on the table next to his bed.

"So," says Arthur shortly, waiting by the coffee pot.

"That was Will," says Merlin unnecessarily. "We've been friends since we were kids."

"Yeah," says Arthur, and he wonders if he's started this conversation about _personal lives _and _feelings _and shit and if he can possibly stop it. "Yeah, well…" trails off Arthur, turning back to the coffee pot as if it can help him.

"He doesn't like it that I've moved away from home," Merlin blurts out, like a secret.

Arthur is horrified to hear himself say: "Which is where?"

"The Cotswolds," says Merlin. "North. Small town, you know. Specifically, Water-on-the-Wold."

"Never heard of it," says Arthur honestly. He hopes this stalls the conversation.

"Exactly," says Merlin. He stretches his arms—his shirt is too short for him, Jesus, and Arthur can see a scrawny, pale stomach. He wants to say more, Arthur can tell, but he doesn't want to hear it.

"Let's just—let's just not do personal lives, okay?" says Arthur shortly, pouring their coffee. "I don't do Jonathan Ross."

"Okay," says Merlin, sounding only slightly disappointed. "That's fine. I can do distant."

_That's not what I meant, _thinks Arthur, but it kind of is. Fuck.

That night, neither of them sleeps. Everything is too awkward and new, and Arthur can see Merlin from his bed and Merlin can see him. Everything is even smaller now. His world is closing in.


	5. A Magic Club Meeting

Arthur has lunch with Morgana and Gwen sometimes. He likes going to their flat. It's larger and cleaner and he likes seeing them, whether he wants to openly admit it or not.

"He's a nutjob," says Arthur vehemently. "A real nutter. Thanks, Morgana, for finding him. He's _great."_

Morgana shrugs apathetically. "You were the one who decided to room with him."

"It wasn't much of a choice," counters Arthur stubbornly. "It was that or eviction. It's not like I had a whole list of people queued up to room with me."

But the thing is—rooming with Merlin isn't turning out to be _that _terrible. Merlin has kept his promise—there have been no more awkward pauses or attempts at deep conversations—it's mostly "pass the sugar" and "what time will you be back tonight" and that kind of thing. To be fair to Arthur, however, Merlin truly _is _a nutjob, what with his Magic the Gathering nonsense, but the weirdest bit is how unbothered Merlin is by the overwhelming weirdness that is his life.

"I'll be out tonight – Magic club meeting," says Merlin one night, and Arthur snorts. Merlin doesn't look upset – quite the contrary. He smiles softly like Arthur's told a joke and leaves—will he _ever _take off that stupid scarf?

To be honest, Merlin seems to be having a better time than he has. He's been mostly stuck inside watching telly or watching football. He's forbidden from clubbing, so what's the _point _in going out, exactly?

So Arthur is immediately suspicious when instead of leaving, Merlin hovers by the door like he can't bear to leave.

"_What?" _asks Arthur snappishly, and Merlin doesn't look taken aback at all. Arthur is losing his touch. (Did he ever have a "touch" when it came to Merlin, anyway?)

"It's just—" begins Merlin, but he stops. "Never mind. See you at eleven." He makes it partway out the door.

"_What?" _repeats Arthur stubbornly, and Merlin takes a step back into the flat.

"We're not supposed to do 'personal,'" says Merlin, hedging a bit. And Christ, he's fiddling with that stupid sleeve.

"Merlin, I swear to God—"

"Do you want to come to magic club with me?" interrupts Merlin. "Because you do nothing but sit in the flat and watch telly—"

"—I do not," protests Arthur halfheartedly. Really, what's the point?

"—and you look bored out of your mind. I don't know what happened to your friends—I can't imagine a bloke like you not having them—but whatever it is that's causing you to stay inside for eons, it's not worth it. Just—come to magic club with me."

Arthur is caught between laughing and shouting. "What?" he manages, the amusement being worn out by curiosity. "Just…_what?"_

"Magic club," repeats Merlin. "For socialization. Which you are sorely needing."

"False," says Arthur. "I socialize fine."

"Really," says Merlin. "Fine, then. I'll see you at—"

Arthur groans loudly and grabs his jacket from his bed. Marching out of the flat, he shouts over his shoulder, "And stop playing with your stupid sleeve!"

He doesn't see Merlin smile as he locks up the flat.

The magic club meets in a shitty basement beneath an Anglican church—apparently, as Merlin explains, one of the warlocks is the pastor's son, so ropes were pulled. The meeting starts with everyone giving their names—their _magical names, _sorry—and it's like Arthur's stumbled into a meeting of AA.

"I'm Rodrick the Bold," says a blond—acne, pudge—a lot are your standard fare—nerds, momma's boys, skinny weirdos like Merlin. But some look much too aristocratic, including a muscular, brooding fellow actually named Lance, although for the club, he's Sir Lancelot. Of course.

"We go by magic names here," explains Merlin. "It's rude to call someone by their 'real name.'"

Arthur snorts openly. "And what's yours?" he prompts Merlin.

Merlin grins. "Merlin."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Quite imaginative."

Merlin shrugs. "Didn't have to be. I hit the jackpot."

"Yes, well…" Arthur begins to retort, when he is distracted by a familiar face.

"Morgan le Fey," says Morgana, smiling. "And this is my earthly friend Gwen – Guinevere."

"Morgana?" blurts out Arthur loudly. Some look offended—Morgana smiles imperiously.

"Hello, brother," she says. "So nice of you to pop in."

"Wait," says Arthur, something dawning on him, "You two—" he gestures to Merlin and Morgana, "—know each other from _magic club?" _

Merlin shrugs. "You said no personal stuff."

Arthur is dumbfounded. His sister—_Morgan le Fey—_Merlin—magic club—what?

"This is Arthur," explains Merlin quickly to the group at large. "He's not very well-acclimated to magic life."

"Gwen—Guinevere, on the other hand," adds Morgana haughtily, "is very open-minded."

Gwen blushes; she's always so sweet. How can one person be so demure all the fucking time?

Magic club proceeds with role playing fantasy games. They take down imaginary trolls and Arthur is enlisted not to pull the sword from the stone, as he'd anticipated drily, but to kill a dragon. It's all very weird.

But at the end of the night when they're allowed to use proper names, Arthur finds himself laughing—not _at _them, even. Merlin's the fucking king—everyone loves Merlin. They're his crazed fans. It's like Beatlemania, the way the girls are flocking around him. Even the men—presumably straight—latch onto him like he's holding the secret of the universe, and to tell the truth, it's fucking annoying.

_What do they see in that twat? _Arthur wonders, because all Merlin is to him is his obnoxious flatmate with the stupid clothes and magic club.

"Merlin!" calls Liv, a pretty brunette—small, heart-shaped face—beaming at them. "We missed you last week."

Merlin smiles, hugs her. "Sorry, Liv. I had to put in some hours at the shop. Last minute."

Liv nods sympathetically, hugs Merlin again, and completely ignores Arthur, which sort of puts Arthur off for a moment, as he was giving her his best flirtatious smile. It's like people have started becoming immune to his charms and good looks.

"Wait," says Arthur quickly, "what shop? You're a cosmetic salesman. You don't work at a shop."

Merlin sighs. "I work at a pharmacy, too – Brinton's – red brick building in the center of London, you've probably passed it—for my godfather, Gaius."

Arthur is reeling. "Godfather Gaius?"

Merlin grins, shrugs. "You miss stuff," he says, totally seriously, voice low, "when you shut people out automatically."

He turns away to talk to one of his adoring fans as if he'd said nothing at all.


	6. Breakfast and Mums

Arthur has lunch with Morgana and Gwen sometimes. He likes going to their flat. It's larger and cleaner and he likes seeing them, whether he wants to openly admit it or not.

"He's a nutjob," says Arthur vehemently. "A real nutter. Thanks, Morgana, for finding him. He's _great."_

Morgana shrugs apathetically. "You were the one who decided to room with him."

"It wasn't much of a choice," counters Arthur stubbornly. "It was that or eviction. It's not like I had a whole list of people queued up to room with me."

But the thing is—rooming with Merlin isn't turning out to be _that _terrible. Merlin has kept his promise—there have been no more awkward pauses or attempts at deep conversations—it's mostly "pass the sugar" and "what time will you be back tonight" and that kind of thing. To be fair to Arthur, however, Merlin truly _is _a nutjob, what with his Magic the Gathering nonsense, but the weirdest bit is how unbothered Merlin is by the overwhelming weirdness that is his life.

"I'll be out tonight – Magic club meeting," says Merlin one night, and Arthur snorts. Merlin doesn't look upset – quite the contrary. He smiles softly like Arthur's told a joke and leaves—will he _ever _take off that stupid scarf?

To be honest, Merlin seems to be having a better time than he has. He's been mostly stuck inside watching telly or watching football. He's forbidden from clubbing, so what's the _point _in going out, exactly?

So Arthur is immediately suspicious when instead of leaving, Merlin hovers by the door like he can't bear to leave.

"_What?" _asks Arthur snappishly, and Merlin doesn't look taken aback at all. Arthur is losing his touch. (Did he ever have a "touch" when it came to Merlin, anyway?)

"It's just—" begins Merlin, but he stops. "Never mind. See you at eleven." He makes it partway out the door.

"_What?" _repeats Arthur stubbornly, and Merlin takes a step back into the flat.

"We're not supposed to do 'personal,'" says Merlin, hedging a bit. And Christ, he's fiddling with that stupid sleeve.

"Merlin, I swear to God—"

"Do you want to come to magic club with me?" interrupts Merlin. "Because you do nothing but sit in the flat and watch telly—"

"—I do not," protests Arthur halfheartedly. Really, what's the point?

"—and you look bored out of your mind. I don't know what happened to your friends—I can't imagine a bloke like you not having them—but whatever it is that's causing you to stay inside for eons, it's not worth it. Just—come to magic club with me."

Arthur is caught between laughing and shouting. "What?" he manages, the amusement being worn out by curiosity. "Just…_what?"_

"Magic club," repeats Merlin. "For socialization. Which you are sorely needing."

"False," says Arthur. "I socialize fine."

"Really," says Merlin. "Fine, then. I'll see you at—"

Arthur groans loudly and grabs his jacket from his bed. Marching out of the flat, he shouts over his shoulder, "And stop playing with your stupid sleeve!"

He doesn't see Merlin smile as he locks up the flat.

The magic club meets in a shitty basement beneath an Anglican church—apparently, as Merlin explains, one of the warlocks is the pastor's son, so ropes were pulled. The meeting starts with everyone giving their names—their _magical names, _sorry—and it's like Arthur's stumbled into a meeting of AA.

"I'm Rodrick the Bold," says a blond—acne, pudge—a lot are your standard fare—nerds, momma's boys, skinny weirdos like Merlin. But some look much too aristocratic, including a muscular, brooding fellow actually named Lance, although for the club, he's Sir Lancelot. Of course.

"We go by magic names here," explains Merlin. "It's rude to call someone by their 'real name.'"

Arthur snorts openly. "And what's yours?" he prompts Merlin.

Merlin grins. "Merlin."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Quite imaginative."

Merlin shrugs. "Didn't have to be. I hit the jackpot."

"Yes, well…" Arthur begins to retort, when he is distracted by a familiar face.

"Morgan le Fey," says Morgana, smiling. "And this is my earthly friend Gwen – Guinevere."

"Morgana?" blurts out Arthur loudly. Some look offended—Morgana smiles imperiously.

"Hello, brother," she says. "So nice of you to pop in."

"Wait," says Arthur, something dawning on him, "You two—" he gestures to Merlin and Morgana, "—know each other from _magic club?" _

Merlin shrugs. "You said no personal stuff."

Arthur is dumbfounded. His sister—_Morgan le Fey—_Merlin—magic club—what?

"This is Arthur," explains Merlin quickly to the group at large. "He's not very well-acclimated to magic life."

"Gwen—Guinevere, on the other hand," adds Morgana haughtily, "is very open-minded."

Gwen blushes; she's always so sweet. How can one person be so demure all the fucking time?

Magic club proceeds with role playing fantasy games. They take down imaginary trolls and Arthur is enlisted not to pull the sword from the stone, as he'd anticipated drily, but to kill a dragon. It's all very weird.

But at the end of the night when they're allowed to use proper names, Arthur finds himself laughing—not _at _them, even. Merlin's the fucking king—everyone loves Merlin. They're his crazed fans. It's like Beatlemania, the way the girls are flocking around him. Even the men—presumably straight—latch onto him like he's holding the secret of the universe, and to tell the truth, it's fucking annoying.

_What do they see in that twat? _Arthur wonders, because all Merlin is to him is his obnoxious flatmate with the stupid clothes and magic club.

"Merlin!" calls Liv, a pretty brunette—small, heart-shaped face—beaming at them. "We missed you last week."

Merlin smiles, hugs her. "Sorry, Liv. I had to put in some hours at the shop. Last minute."

Liv nods sympathetically, hugs Merlin again, and completely ignores Arthur, which sort of puts Arthur off for a moment, as he was giving her his best flirtatious smile. It's like people have started becoming immune to his charms and good looks.

"Wait," says Arthur quickly, "what shop? You're a cosmetic salesman. You don't work at a shop."

Merlin sighs. "I work at a pharmacy, too – Brinton's – red brick building in the center of London, you've probably passed it—for my godfather, Gaius."

Arthur is reeling. "Godfather Gaius?"

Merlin grins, shrugs. "You miss stuff," he says, totally seriously, voice low, "when you shut people out automatically."

He turns away to talk to one of his adoring fans as if he'd said nothing at all.


	7. Reinventing the Wheel

"I'm bored," says Arthur from his chair. It's a Saturday afternoon, and nothing is happening. Merlin is sitting across the room in his chair, reading a Dungeons and Dragons strategy book. Arthur would like to vomit.

"Read a book," says Merlin casually, turning his page. After a moment, he looks up. Just as he'd suspected, Arthur is glaring at him. "What?" asks Merlin. "You don't read?"

"Of course I _read, _Merlin. I'm not some cretin. I like reading, actually. I just don't want to right now. I'm antsy."

Arthur isn't sure why he's presenting this problem to Merlin except for the fact that Merlin never is bored. He's so fucking content all the time, and Arthur kind of wonders how he does it.

"Look, Arthur, are you asking me to come up with something for you to do?"

"Yes," says Arthur, even though he isn't sure if that's what he'd been asking at all.

"Fine," says Merlin, "go food shopping."

"What?"

"Go to the grocery store. We're completely out of milk."

"That's because you drank the last of it, you twat, and you didn't put it on the grocery list," responds Arthur waspishly. Merlin is momentarily distracted.

"We have a _grocery list?"_

"Holy fuck, I'm going to have to murder you," says Arthur in disbelief. "Yes, we fucking have a grocery list. It's right next to the goddamn refrigerator."

"My," says Merlin facetiously, "such language!"

"I'm not going to get more milk when you drank it all and then didn't put it on the list," says Arthur staunchly.

Merlin sighs, tossing aside his book. _"Fine, _I'll go get more milk."

"No," whines Arthur, "because then I'll be even _more _bored."

Merlin laughs exasperatedly. "Do you want to come _with me _to the grocery store, Arthur?"

"Of course not, don't be stupid," responds Arthur, but then he starts to wonder if he actually might. "Wait –"

"Just come on," says Merlin, laughing genuinely. Arthur follows.

Arthur soon learns that grocery shopping with Merlin is more like grocery shopping with a six-year-old, because Merlin is instantly distracted by everything. Arthur's brought along the grocery list and is going through it systematically, but he keeps turning around from picking out the nicest cut of meat to find that Merlin's wandered over to produce and is now talking to a woman and her eight-year-old son about Manchester United (and Merlin doesn't even _watch _sports, God).

"Merlin," says Arthur sharply, striding over to him, "we aren't doing produce until after meats, dairy, and dry products."

"Yes, but we're here now, so may as well," says Merlin cheerfully, picking up a couple of mangoes and putting them in a bag.

"Merlin," says Arthur again, "what on earth do you expect us to do with mangoes?"

"I dunno," shrugs Merlin, "eat them?"

"For fuck's sake, Merlin," says Arthur loudly, and the woman Merlin had been talking to glares at him, pulling her son away.

"Shhhh," says Merlin noisily, and Arthur wants to punch him a little.

"Come on," grumbles Arthur, "like that little kid has never heard the word _fuck _before, he lives in London, Christ."

Merlin says nothing but is already drifting off to the candy section (which isn't even _on their list), _leaving Arthur to go catch him before he buys gummy worms or something stupid like that.

When they return back to the flat an hour later, burdened by bags, Merlin is smiling to himself.

"What are you so happy about," grumbles Arthur waspishly, unpacking the first of the bags. Merlin dumps his share on the counter and sits in his chair enjoying his fresh bag of chocolate chips.

"I had fun!" he says enthusiastically through a mouthful of morsels. He swallows. "Didn't you?"

"Oh yes," says Arthur sarcastically, "because I love chasing after you to God-knows-where to prevent you – largely unsuccessfully – from buying junk food."

"Oh, come on," says Merlin happily, "you liked it. You had more fun going with me than if you'd been sitting here by yourself, didn't you?"

Arthur sighs. "Okay, yes, technically, yes, but that doesn't mean—"

But Merlin doesn't even care; he's just chewing his chocolate chips like he's invented the fucking wheel or something.

And maybe he has.


	8. Things That Are Said at JJ's

It's just assumed after a while, that Merlin will accompany him places. It's not even asked anymore, just fact, just a normal thing to do. When Arthur goes grocery shopping, it's assumed that Merlin will come along, buying sugary marshmallow-y things that Arthur will surreptitiously put back on shelves when Merlin isn't looking. It's assumed that they'll order takeout from the Thai place down the street and Merlin will take for-fucking-_ever _looking at the menu, and Arthur will always get the same thing: Combo #34. It's fact that when Arthur goes over to visit Morgana and Gwen, Merlin will follow, bringing over little gifts like knickknacks or flowers or banana bread he bought at the farmers' market and Arthur will do the cooking. It's almost stopped bothering Arthur, but not quite—he still can't figure out what it is about Merlin that makes him so universally loved. It's disconcerting, a little bit, to have people fawn over Merlin wherever they go. It's not just girls (or gay men) – it's _everyone. _It's the homeless woman Merlin is friends with on the corner because he gives her a few pounds every now and then and also gives her food that he cooks himself which means it's barely edible, but she's still appreciative. It's the old man Merlin helped across the street that he still keeps in touch with, it's the twelve-year-old girl from his village who is _in love _with Merlin but Merlin doesn't mind, he just smiles at her as if he doesn't know at all. It's the divorcees Merlin sells cosmetics to, waiters at restaurants, clerks at the supermarket. It's as if Merlin is Jesus Christ.

And it also gives Arthur some appreciation for Christ's Apostles, because they must've felt like complete shit next to the fucking Lord. Which is how Arthur feels next to Merlin, because Arthur used to think people liked him – hell, _everyone _liked him. But for some reason, now everyone treats Arthur more or less like he's invisible.

This wouldn't happen at clubs or in fancy restaurants like the places Arthur used to go. Sophie would see Merlin and not give him a second glance, float right on by in her little clothing. He doesn't really miss his friends anymore – they were placeholders, anyway, just people to drink with. He was never close to them. But what he _does _miss is how he felt when he was with them – he never feels better than Merlin, just like he _should _but _can't. _He never feels smarter or nicer, and even Merlin's stupid clothes have gotten compliments, like he's so fucking creative for wearing a trend three years old, _Jesus. _

With his old friends, he was always more popular and funnier and better and richer and usually drunker. Merlin is none of these things, but people think he's the best, most perfect kind of person to ever be around.

Arthur misses his friends because they used to treat him like that. Or, at least, Arthur knew he was better than them even if they didn't want to admit it. He is a _Pendragon. _He was born into high society, and here he was, sleeping on a shitty mattress on a floor in some shitty south London apartment, feeling inferior to a skinny hipster bloke who was in _magic club _and worshipped from afar by friends and strangers alike.

How had he wound up like this?

Oh, right. Too many Jell-O shots, a little bit of acid (probably,) and Sophie giving him head in the front seat of a car going much too fast into the side of a bank.

"Arthur," says Merlin, breaking Arthur's reverie. "Dinner? You want to get some?"

Arthur nods reflexively, gets up to find his coat. (Merlin borrowed it when he thought Arthur wouldn't notice – he _did – _and it was as such lost somewhere in the great chasm that was Merlin's side of the room.)

They go to dinner at J.J.'s, a pub down the street that's fairly cheap – they're both behind on rent – and that Merlin swears has the best burgers _ever. _(They don't.)

"Hi, party of two, please?" says Merlin to the hostess.

The hostess looks down at her list, frowns slightly and reports, "It's a fifteen to twenty minute wait, if that's okay."

Merlin doesn't bat an eyelash: "That's perfect. Thank you _very _much."

But the way he says it is like he's accepting a BAFTA and it's enough to make Arthur _sick. _

"Oh," says the hostess blushing a little, pulling down her shirt to proffer her tits to them – really just Merlin but Arthur pretends it's him too – "No problem."

As they walk away to find a bench while they wait, the hostess calls after them, "Wait a moment. I think I found a table for you."

Merlin looks surprised, like he actually didn't know that was going to happen, and says, "Oh! Well, thank you very much!"

"Don't mention it," says the hostess, turning pink on the cheeks and fetching menus. "It's my pleasure…"

"Merlin," says Merlin, grinning. Arthur's been around Merlin long enough to hate that stupid smile he gets when people treat him like this, and he sulks behind him.

"Jennifer," blushes the hostess, leading them to the table. She ignores Arthur completely and breathlessly tells Merlin, "If you need _anything at all, _let me know."

Arthur wants to punch the both of them.

"So," says Merlin as if nothing has happened, "what are you feeling tonight? Burgers? I think we should get burgers."

"Shove off," says Arthur waspishly, and Merlin gives him an unreadable look.

Halfway through their burgers (they're _fine, _but not great), Merlin says quietly, "Arthur."

Arthur focuses on his plate. "What."

"What is it," murmurs Merlin. "What's wrong."

"That's personal," says Arthur petulantly, and he hears the exasperated sound Merlin makes.

And then Merlin says something that surprises him.

"Fuck you."

Arthur looks up, instantly enraged, reading to throw something. "Excuse me?"

Merlin meets his gaze levelly. "Fuck you, I said. I mean it. You act like I've done something wrong, and I haven't. So fuck you."

"What the _fuck _is my problem?" asks Arthur rhetorically, like Merlin's asked the question. "It's how people fawn over you every fucking place we go!"

"I don't ask them to," says Merlin fervently, and he's less mad now than pitying which makes Arthur even madder.

"Yes, you _do," _bites Arthur. "Every fucking thing you do asks them to treat you like a prince."

"You know, Arthur," says Merlin in a voice that Arthur's never heard before, "people treat me like that because I'm _nice. _Maybe you could try that sometime."

"I'm nice," says Arthur reflexively, but he wonders if it's true. (It's not.)

"No, you're not," says Merlin, but it sounds much too kind. "You're a good person, but you're not a _nice _person."

"You're not perfect," says Arthur. "People think you are, but you aren't."

"I never said I was," mutters Merlin, looking anywhere but at Arthur.

"What happened that made you leave home, Merlin?" challenges Arthur, and he knows he's gone too far by the look on Merlin's face. He half expects him to start crying.

"Fuck you," repeats Merlin, but softer. He shoves a few quid at Arthur, getting up to leave.

"Wait—" says Arthur impulsively, but when Merlin turns to face him, he has nothing to say.

That night, Merlin doesn't speak to him at all, and Arthur is terrified. He's used to unfriendly, mean people: he used to be friends with the lot of them. But coming from Merlin, this kind of animosity is horrible. He's foreign and distant, and it makes Arthur's skin crawl.

The next morning, Merlin pretends as if nothing has happened.

"I made coffee," he says to Arthur, and Arthur looks at him. "Dunno if it's any good," continues Merlin casually, "but you can have some."

"Merlin," says Arthur, hands shaking a little (he hates confrontation).

"Hmm?"

"About last night, what I said, it was –"

"How many creams do you want?" asks Merlin, as if he doesn't know. (One.)

"One," says Arthur, "but that's not the point. The point is –"

"Sugars?"

"One," says Arthur again, getting frustrated. "You know how I take my coffee, Merlin."

"Do I?" muses Merlin vaguely, adding in the cream and sugar. "Hmm."

"Fuck this," says Arthur vehemently, losing his patience. "And fuck you."

Merlin says nothing, but he looks slightly sad, the corners of his mouth turned down just a little.

"I'm _trying," _growls Arthur, standing next to Merlin. "I'm _trying _to be your friend, to be a good person and you won't _fucking let me. _Fuck you, Merlin. Fuck your imperiousness, fuck your bobbly head and skinny knees, fuck your messiness and constant smiling, fuck your shitty, shitty taste in music, fuck your big hands and big eyes, fuck your stupid smile, fuck the way you make me feel like a fucking idiot –" Arthur thinks he could go on forever with things Merlin should be sorry about, but then suddenly Merlin is grabbing Arthur's head and kissing him, his teeth knocking Arthur's incredibly awkwardly, his breath still tasting like his first cup of coffee, his long, spindly fingers in Arthur's hair.

He pulls away suddenly, looking anywhere but Arthur's eyes, widened in shock.

"I'm – I'm sorry," he says, his voice wobbling, and he grabs his hideous jacket and bolts.


	9. Days One and Two

Merlin doesn't come back to the flat for three days. Arthur is miserable.

The first day, he sulks. He doesn't shower or eat. He lies on his mattress, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck had happened and how he had gotten here.

He keeps replaying the kiss in his head, as if thinking about it more will make it easier to understand, will unlock some sort of secret he was missing before. He just keeps seeing that inscrutable look in Merlin's eyes, feeling the weight of Merlin's mouth on his, the pressure of Merlin's skinny torso pressed against his.

And he wants, more than anything, to fight with Merlin about this. He wants to yell at him.

_Why the fuck did you do that? _Arthur would shout. And Merlin would stammer an apology, about how he didn't really mean it, and Arthur would forgive him and they could go back to doing what they did before. He wants to scream at Merlin but Merlin isn't there to hear him, and as it is, Arthur keeps rolling over in his bed, waiting for Merlin to come back to the flat.

He doesn't.

The second day, Arthur visits Morgana and Gwen.

Morgana knows something is wrong from the look on his face, but she doesn't say anything at first. Arthur wishes she would, because she keeps looking at him over her tea with concern. Gwen is even worse, looking at Arthur like he has a tumor. She's even stroking his hand, and Arthur realizes dully that he doesn't care at all. There was a time, not even that long ago, that Gwen would have driven Arthur mad with jealousy and regret, but now he's just sort of sad, shiftless, wishing he could have been nicer to her when they were together.

After an hour, Morgana can't take it anymore.

"What's wrong?" she blurts out suddenly, touching Arthur's hand uncharacteristically. "What's happened? You look like you've suffered a loss."

Arthur looks up at her bewilderedly. "I – Merlin and I had a fight."

Morgana doesn't say anything, waits for him to continue.

"I said some unpleasant things," says Arthur carefully, voice strained. He gives a little laugh, but the sound is unhappy. "Of course I did. That's what I do."

Morgana bites her lip. "What happened?"

"It occurred to me that I wasn't being a very nice person," says Arthur. "And so I tried to apologize to Merlin the next morning, and he blew me off. And I sort of—I sort of exploded at him." He makes another humorless laugh. "'Fuck you,' I told him. Fuck you for this and that, and while I'm shouting at him—going completely mental, mind you, he—he kisses me."

Arthur looks up at Morgana, and his face is so helpless that she wants to hug him.

"And then he – he just left, and he hasn't been back in more than a day."

Morgana looks overcome with emotion _for _him, as if she's absorbed all his feelings because he's feeling so fucking flat right now.

"So," she says. "Do you think—Do you think you might have feelings for Merlin, Arthur?"

"It doesn't matter," says Arthur after a long silence. "Because I don't know when he's coming back, and he's straight, anyway."

At this, Morgana outright laughs. _"What?"_

"Merlin's straight, so it doesn't matter," repeats Arthur. Morgana is laughing, nearing hysterics.

"Arthur, sweetheart," she says gently, "Merlin Emrys is _anything _but straight."

Arthur blinks rapidly. "What?"

"Merlin's gay," says Morgana, smiling at Arthur like he's a small child. "Didn't you know?"

_Obviously not, _thinks Arthur, but Morgana's still smiling at him. "Remember when I told you his girl friends weren't _friends? _Didn't you wonder _why?" _

Arthur thinks back to that night at magic club and shakes his head. He was so sure Merlin was flirting – wait. Merlin's _gay? _So – Jennifer and all the rest, they had no chance, Arthur was never competing with anyone at all –

"Fuck," breathes Arthur. "Fuck. So –"

"He fancies you, Arthur," says Morgana, voice still gentle. "He's mad about you. Anyone can see that."

"What do you mean," says Arthur flatly. "What do you mean, 'anyone can see that?'"

"I mean," says Morgana, "ever since that time you came to magic club and the two of you have become friends, everyone's just been waiting to see how long it would take before something like this happened."

"But I'm not gay," says Arthur, still feeling as if he's just suffered from some sort of shock.

Morgana shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

"I think it matters," says Arthur, but he's not so sure when he thinks about Merlin kissing him in their kitchenette.

"Arthur," says Gwen quietly, close to his ear, "just do what makes you happy, okay?"

And it's as soon as she says it that Arthur realizes he's been doing the opposite of that for so long – clubbing never made him happy, staying distant from people never made him happy, lying to divorcees, staying distant from Merlin, fucking Sophie, doing drugs, being jealous of everyone loving Merlin – none of those things ever made him happy. So why did he keep _doing _them? Why did he keep fucking his life up for himself? Why couldn't he just be _happy_?

"I have to go," says Arthur abruptly, mind reeling.

Arthur walks into the store, finds his supervisor and tells her flatly, "I quit."

When he leaves, he feels like he's new and raw, and it feels both terrifying and gratifying at once.


	10. The Third Day

The third day, Arthur applies for a real job. It involves wearing a suit and meeting with an important man who runs a newspaper. He wants to see Arthur's credentials.

"I don't have any, sir," says Arthur honestly. "Until a few months ago, I believed partying and drinking was the most important thing I could do, as I was entirely dependent on my trust fund. As it is, sir, I can promise you I will work hard and I am a fast learner. I will do any job you ask – even if I'm just a coffee fetcher, I can do that."

He doesn't get the job, but he feels better anyway. He's got interviews lined up for the next week. He's going to get a proper job.

When he comes back to his flat, Merlin is sitting in one of their lawn chairs.

"Fuck," breathes Arthur out of surprise – it's like Merlin's a ghost that's just showed up.

"Er, hi," says Merlin lamely, and Arthur's skin feels like it's trying to strangle him.

"Hi," says Arthur faintly. "What – I thought you were gone."

"Yeah," says Merlin, rubbing the back of his neck. "I kind of thought so, too."

Arthur sits down on the chair opposite him, putting his briefcase next to him. "So what made you come back?" he asks, not sure he wants to hear the answer.

Merlin doesn't give one. "I just—I found what I was looking for."

Arthur nods like this tells him anything. "I quit my job," he tells Merlin. "I'm applying for real ones. For newspapers, accounting firms, anywhere with a spare cubicle that will take me."

Merlin smiles faintly. "Good for you."

There's an awkward pause.

"So—what did you do?" ask Arthur, his voice sounding foreign even to him.

"I went home," says Merlin, and Arthur snaps his eyes onto Merlin's. He doesn't see anything. Merlin takes a deep breath, swallows. "See, what you said at the restaurant was true. I was avoiding going home, and I needed to, and you helped me." He looks at Arthur. Voice wavering, he commands, "Ask me what you did at the restaurant."

"Merlin—"

"Ask me."

Arthur doesn't tear his eyes away from Merlin. "What happened that made you leave home?"

"Will," he says, as if he's had this response planned for days. (He has.) "Will's the reason I left. One day after school, he cornered me and told me he was gay and that he was in love with me and then he kissed me. And it turns out his mother saw and told my mother, and she didn't care but everyone in the town started treating me like I had a disease, like Will and I were going to start fucking in public and like we were ill or something, and I couldn't take it." Arthur is gazing at him intently, sadly. Merlin keeps going, words finding their way out of his mouth, tumbling faster and faster. "I've always been weird, Arthur," he says. "I've never fit in, and then me and Will – that just settled it. No one spoke to me, or if they did, it was like I was something in a museum, and I knew I had to get away from the fucking small-mindedness of the village, had to move somewhere where no one knew me. It broke Will's heart, but he never realized I didn't—I didn't care for him the way he did me. He was just the catalyst for something bigger. And I never wanted to go home ever again, but I had to, because I had to see Will and had to see my mother and all the fucking people who made my life miserable. 'Look at the poof,' some of the kids used to say." He swallows. "So I went to Will and told him that I love him but I don't, and that what he wanted, he would never have. That I can't be the person he wants me to be. And I told my mother, finally, out loud, that I was gay." He laughs, his eyes looking watery. "I'd never even told her before."

He looks at Arthur. "That's why I left home. Because I'm a giant fucking poof, and I was always afraid to admit it until now."

Arthur looks at him, crying in his chair, and he stands. His legs are moving for him, he doesn't even have time to think about what he's doing when he pulls Merlin up by the shirt and kisses him firmly on the lips. He's got two fistfuls of Merlin's shirt, and Merlin's hands are clutching at his back. Merlin doesn't do anything but kiss him back, still clawing at his back, and suddenly Arthur breaks away, tearing off Merlin's shirt. Fuck, he's so skinny. Arthur smiles, pulls off his own shirt, going back in to kiss Merlin, who is looking bewildered and happy and scared.

"Arthur—wait," he says, and something about the way he says it makes Arthur stop, even though he'd very much like to get back to tearing off Merlin's hideous clothing. "Why did you quit your job?"

Arthur smiles, and it feels new on his face, like he hadn't felt happy in forever. (Maybe he hadn't.) "I discovered that I didn't want myself to be happy. While you were in your shit village, I was sulking around here, and then I found out you were gay, and then I found out that I kept avoiding happiness by avoiding people, and then just now I found out that maybe I'm a little bit of a poof too, because I want to kiss you right now, and because everything you do drives me up the wall but I don't care, because if you ever leave again, I'll drown myself in the Thames." He's laughing and maybe crying, but it doesn't matter, because Merlin is listening raptly. "You have horrible taste in clothing and decoration and _everything, _but every morning I wake up kind of glad to see your fucking skinny body over on that mattress over there. I hate the way you cook and make coffee and you're just a _moron, _you know that? You're so stupid. You're so, so stupid, Merlin. You make absolutely no sense and people everyone loves you and maybe I do, too, because at least I understand it now – the only reason I ever didn't like you was because I was afraid of getting to know you, because I was afraid of happiness." He takes a breath, laughing shakily. "But I'm not anymore. That's what I discovered while you were confronting your past. I'm not scared of being happy anymore." His arms are shaking – he's shaking all over, actually, but he needs to keep going for just a minute longer. "I moved into this flat because I crashed my car into a bank." He laughs, thinking about how weird that sounds. Merlin smiles weakly. "I used to be into partying," Arthur explains. "I used drink until I couldn't stand or see, drop acid, shoot up, whatever. I used to fuck around, I used to do all this shit until one day I was drunk and high and I drove into the side of the bank. I could've killed someone. I could've killed Sophie – she was my girlfriend at the time, she was in the car. And my father cut me off. He told me that I had to get out in less than a week, or he was disinheriting me. And so here I am. I never understood what was wrong, Merlin. I always thought bad things happened to me. Until now, I never figured out how fucking _dumb _I was. But I was. And I am. I'm a fucking idiot. I couldn't even see what was in front of me until right now."

Merlin is crying, the tears slipping down his cheeks.

Arthur approaches him, kissing him again. "I'm a fucking idiot for you, Merlin Emrys," he says into Merlin's neck. "I'm complete shit at everything, but I'm mad for you."

"I love you," says Merlin impulsively, and Arthur kisses him, flashing him a smile that makes his knees weak.

"I know."

Neither can get to the other fast enough.


	11. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

Arthur gets a job at a newspaper a few weeks later. He's a fact checker. He tells Morgana, and Morgana tells Uther, and three weeks later, Uther calls Arthur to tell him he can move back in when he wants to.

Arthur isn't as pleased by the news as he thought he would be. Glancing over at Merlin, who is trying to sew a button onto his jacket, he cradles the phone between his jaw and shoulder.

"I don't think I'll be moving back in, Father," he says nervously. "See, I've discovered a lot of things about myself recently, not the least of which is that I'm at least a little homosexual and I'm currently dating my flatmate. So I think I'd rather stay here, with him, and have my stupid low-paying newspaper job, and pay far too much for a flat that is still mostly dust and eat while sitting in lawn chairs if it means staying with him and staying happy. Because I spent a long time unhappy, Father, and Merlin has suddenly made me realize that I'm much happier when I'm with him and doing something I like to do."

Uther doesn't say anything for a long time, and Arthur's pulse races nervously.

"I've never been prouder to be your father, Arthur," he says finally, and Arthur is shocked to hear his father's voice crack a little over the phone. "A little bit homosexual and all."

Arthur's crying when he hangs up the phone.

"Hey, Merlin?" he calls.

Merlin looks up expectantly.

"I love you," says Arthur, grinning.

Merlin smiles, looks back down at his sewing.

"I know."

Author's Note: That's all, folks! At least for this installation. Drop a note in your review if you're interested in the sequel! Thanks for your support. 3

Always,

Molly


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